Unspoken Arrangement
by deep-in-the-woods
Summary: Fish knew that with eyes like that, the boy could be a killer one day. And now that would-be killer is watching the way she worries her lip, drinking in her every reaction as his touch whispers over her skin. - Oswald/Fish in a kinda weird sorta way.


**Rating:** T for brief mentions of violence (not graphic), a few curse words and I guess implied kinky stuffs.  
><span><strong>Setting:<strong> Sometime before the start of the show, few months or a year maybe. This is pretty much an AU since anything before the show's time line is a mystery so far.  
><span><strong>AN:** As mentioned above, this is an AU and I took a few liberties with Oswald's past, inspired by some aspects of him from the graphic novels. Not much though, he ain't gonna spew bird puns or anything. Anyway, a friend of mine suggested I'd write something about the dynamic between Fish and Oswald and how she insisted the scene where he's massaging her foot is, and I quote: "OH GAWD it's totally the hottest thing I've seen in that show so far!" and I came up with this. She was probably expecting something along the lines of foot worshiping, but I couldn't manage to write that through all the tears of mirth. I hope this is close enough. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>The tables are empty, condensation drips slowly down the side of her glass to pool in her hand, and Fish thinks she might not get much sleep tonight.<p>

It's closing time, but the night is far from over. Long after the last straggler stumbles out the doors, she'll sort through every edged promise she's made throughout the night and she's made quite a few promises this evening. Money exchanged hands, territories were mapped, names named and a few threats called out – the usual pissing match that is her career. When every player including herself is in check, it's hard to keep track of how many people she wants dead.

With a faint sigh, she takes a moment to unwind in the near silence and watches the few remaining members of the band pack away their instruments on stage. It had been a long day of apparently everyone wanting a piece of her and she just wants to crash on the nearest surface and not hear her name in someone's mouth for all of five minutes. Seeing that sleep isn't an option right now, she sits on the table of an empty booth and kicks off her heels. With the stage lights dimmed, it's almost relaxing in a way. It gives everything this cover, a shadow to hide in where nothing is really clear so you have license to venture things you normally wouldn't; the sign of a successful nightclub. If only her criminal career was so easily managed.

With a flick of her wrist, she downs her drink and knows without having to look when it's refilled once more. Oswald stands at her side with a decanter of her favorite brandy in hand, and she's silently impressed with the intuitive way he can make himself appear when needed and make himself scarce when he's not. In this case, instead of scurrying away to whatever dark corner he hides in, he waits for a command to fall from her lips before it even forms on her tongue. Sadly, so few men have that talent.

"Sit," she says, embracing the need for a distraction he's suitable enough to give. She'll have the rest of the night to go over her accounts and the odd company of her penguin has yet to disappoint. "Have a drink with me."

The boy just smiles in that curious way of his; a fluttering tightness around his lips and a touch too hesitant, but he complies nonetheless and slides into the booth. Stiff and awkward, he sits on the edge of the seat near her lacquered toes while he pours himself a glass.

She takes a moment to really look at him now since far too often, he's just this silent shade melting into the background and it pays to know the face of those who stand in your shadow. He isn't particularly handsome like the boys she prefers; nothing but sharp angles and unflattering deep lines when he smiles. Dark crescents punch into his swallow skin beneath deep-set eyes, and she decides that while he's far from pretty, he's certainly interesting to look at and Fish can appreciate a face she can study. It's one of the reasons she decided to take him on, she remembers.

He worked as a waiter to a high-end French restaurant over on Park Row she often visited to impress potential allies when she first met him. He wore a penguin suit and that odd smile like a shield even then. There was a hint of cunning in his eye that knew who she was, or rather, what she'll very soon rise to be and he took the same attentive care of her as he does now. Late one evening after a deal went sour, he was taking out the trash and caught sight of her puncturing a man's skull with her heel tip and politely asked if she wanted him to toss the corpse into the dumpster too, and that was that. He quit his job that night and has been in her employ ever since. It was a violently strange start to their association, but Fish figures there's very little that isn't violently strange about Oswald Cobblepot.

"Thank you for the pleasure of your company this evening, Miss. Mooney," he raises his glass with a look of seemingly pure admiration that's far too enthusiastic to her liking, but she lets it slide. She's simply too tired to call him out on it at the moment.

"You know I always got time for my boys," she chinks his glass, all easy smiles too. Business is good and she's finally carving out a comfortable niche for herself. All under Falcone of course, but it will do for now. In fact, she should be celebrating, so why does she feel so damned tired already? She digs her aching toes into the cool leather and thinks it might be the heels. Next time she needs to kick someone's ribs in again, she'll remember to wear something with a closed toe.

"You're too kind," he says and from this higher angle, she watches the way his throat works down the liquor with a grimace.

"It's been rough, but this is just the start for us, Oswald," she murmurs, taking in the view of the now empty stage and thinks she's still got a long ways to go. The club has only been open for two weeks and she still hasn't found a line up of decent acts, but it's _hers _and that's all that matters. "Soon, everyone's gonna want to swim in our little pond and money will _swe__e__ll _the banks."

The boy chuckles with something of a sincere grin this time, a rare thing she's seen on the few occasions where it's just the two of them. He may be an obvious flatterer, but whenever she humors him with words like '_us_' and '_our_' in their little chats, it sure does tickle him something good. In a way, they both get what they want from each other. Fish commands his unwavering service, and Oswald basks in her reflected success under her firm hand. Sometimes, she wonders if he knows of this unspoken arrangement between them; always too clever for his own good. And other times when he treats her like a goddess, she doesn't mind in the slightest.

"Yes, we've indeed come a long way."

For a moment, it looks as though he has something else to say, but thinks better of it and Fish tisks into her glass. "Something you'd like to share?"

"It's nothing," he shrugs. "A reminiscence of humble beginnings, I suppose. Had I known a year ago I would be here now sharing a drink with such sophisticated company, I never would have believed it."

"Oh? Where else would you be?" she asks, genuinely curious. In their occasional talks, he's always been careful to never share much of his personal life. Perhaps because he's always known she'd never care to listen, but she doesn't mind putting off work for a little while longer to hear it now.

If he was surprised by her prodding, he hides it well behind a sip of his drink. "You'll laugh."

"I might," she admits, promising nothing.

"I imagine had I continued working my way through college…" he pauses as if to buy time by topping off both their glasses. "…my studies would have led me to a career in ornithology. I admit I miss my academic pursuits, but it's favorably more lucrative where I am here with you."

"Ornithology," she echos with a seemingly interested hum until she can't fight back the slow curl of her lips. "Of the... _flightless_ variety?"

She didn't think it was possible, but his skin turns even paler when the smile slides off his face. Poor boy, he's just too easy to bait. Briefly, she imagines being called a penguin is a step up from her given name since she grew up teased with all the innuendos of what smells like 'fish', but she'd never admit that out loud. Some things people let go of, some never do.

"Of the _general_ variety, Miss. Mooney," he says shortly, clearly not amused.

"Couldn't help myself," she bites back her grin. In an effort to get him to loosen up, she playfully nudges his knee with a toe and pulls back with a hissing wince when a sharp spike of pain cuts through her foot. "Ah – must've bruised something on that damned fool's ribs..."

Fish starts to set her glass down with the intent to inspect her foot until the boy beats her to it like it's the most natural thing in the world. His hands are cool against her skin; white pale spiders gently applying pressure as he carefully turns her foot to catch the light.

"Perhaps a little swollen, but thankfully not bruised or broken..." he mutters quietly and gives her a delicious squeeze that makes her toes involuntarily curl, before he seems to realize just what he's doing and lets go. "I-I uh – forgive me if I took liberties –"

"Oh no, gotta finish what you started now," she says, ignoring the panicked expression pinching his face. "Go on, give me a rub."

And that curious smile is back; slow and hesitant, almost shy in a boyish sort of way as he cups her foot in his hands. With a strength she hadn't thought he'd have in such long delicate fingers, he kneads the pain out of her sore flesh and she lets out a sigh of pleasure. Where he lacks in grace everywhere else, he makes up for it in his hands with the way they slowly stroke down the sensitive arch in a contradictory way that is both strangely sensual and ticklish. Fish bites her lip to keep from arching away at the contact and she finally glances up to notice he'd been watching her face the whole time.

Unbidden, Fish recalls the only time he'd ever looked at her that way with such focused intensity. Back in that dim alley long ago, the smell of rotting food and wet cement from a recent drizzle in the air, she told him she needed a man who could follow her command and never question it. _I'm yours_, he had said, blood staining the white waiter's collar, corpse slung over a shoulder. It was the first time Fish knew that with eyes like that, the boy could be a killer one day.

And now that would-be killer is watching the way she worries her lip, drinking in her every reaction as his touch whispers over her skin. This is simply more intense than it has any right to be and there's something about the way he watches her that just gets to her. Burrowed under her skin, sinking in deeper with every touch. It digs into her gut and trails up her spine with a dull ache and she can't shake the things floating up into the surface of her thoughts. Random different pictures but all with the same outcome with a familiar feeling of something right at the tip of her tongue…

Suddenly, his fingertips brush her ankle, teasing to go up her calf and she wonders where his initial shyness went. For a split second, Fish considers letting him. Just lift up the hem of her evening dress up to her thighs and let him work his way up because with hands like _that_... damn, if it wasn't tempting. But she doesn't. Instead, she gently pulls away, tucking away the idea for another time. She's still got work to do and now she's damned sure she'll have a hard time sleeping tonight.

"Boy, those sure ain't flippers you got there," she says and his empty hands tighten for a moment until a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes settles over his features. That stung him and it was an empty sort of pettiness, taking comfort in familiarity rather than any real enjoyment. He had to be reminded that his place is at her feet for as long as it suits her. "With magic hands like that, you're gonna have to run to keep me away from them."

"Y-yes, well... it was my pleasure," he clears his throat and his hands drop away to his lap. "I'll be happy to do so anytime." From this angle, it only takes a glance to see he would be by the tightness in his slacks she chooses to casually ignore.

"I'll hold you to it," she says. Deciding to be merciful and avoid his eventual awkwardness by standing up, Fish slips off the table and slides her heels back on. "I'll be in my office. Be sure to lock the place up when you leave. Goodnight, Oswald."

"Goodnight, Miss. Mooney."

Fish leaves him at the booth nursing the rest of his drink and spends the rest of the early hours trying to ignore the niggling curiosity at the back of her mind wondering when the boy had managed to learn how to touch a woman like a man. And sometimes when the club was closed and she needed a reminder, she'd simply slip off her heels and he showed her again without complaint.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:** Wow this was painfully difficult to write. I had every intention for this to end up in full-blown smut, until I figured it would be pretty out of character and had to rein myself in and that _hurt_. I blame my friend for putting dirty things in my head. Anyway, if you got any comments, suggestions or corrections to help improve my writing, feel free to drop me a review or a PM to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!


End file.
